


Taking off Masks One by One

by polemisti



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Bisexual Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne Has Trust Issues, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, But we all knew that, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Human Trafficking, I'll update tags as I post chapters, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason Todd is a little shit and I love him, M/M, POV Clark Kent, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Slow Burn, Superman is not a dumbass, i will die on this hill, mischievous clark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polemisti/pseuds/polemisti
Summary: There was a silence between them, and Clark couldn’t decide if it was comfortable or awkward. On one hand, the two of them already knew each other at some level. Batman and Superman were fast allies (after the initial moralistic disagreements, of course), and had been known to make the occasional wry comment to each other on the battlefield. On the other hand, they were meeting each other again. A more honest introduction. Batman had met Superman. Brucie Wayne had met Clumsy Clark. And now, maybe, Bruce Wayne was meeting Clark Kent.“How long have you known?” Bruce asked after a moment, eyes trained on a small scratch in the corner of Clark’s small flat-screen TV.Clark pretended to think for a moment, before stopping himself. The masks were harder to remove than anticipated, then. “Four months,” he said.“Huh,” Bruce said, chuckling softly, “I’ve only known for three.”orClark figured out who Batman was months ago, and decided not to mention it. The two explore their changing dynamic as the truth comes to light.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 83
Kudos: 263





	1. Avoiding One Bruce Wayne

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was based off of Superman's characterization in JLA #32, especially that moment where he's standing in space being a snarky asshole. Its also inspired by a single moment in Man of Steel where Clark is wiping his hands on a towel in his family home, watching football.

People seemed to forget being dumb, clueless and clumsy was a cover for Clark Kent. They seemed to forget that even without the cape, he held two pulitzers and a small collection of other minor awards for his work as an investigative journalist. The people that only knew him as Superman seemed to forget that he had grown up on earth. They would give him sideways glances when he mentioned the football game last week, growing suspicious and tense. They forgot that the god-like hero standing before them was playing football in his front yard before he even knew he was an alien.

Sometimes, when discussing last week’s game with Mike the hotdog vendor on 4th, passerbys would give him weird looks. Well, of course they all gave him weird looks. Superman was buying a hotdog. But it wasn’t about the hotdog with some of them, Clark realized after the 2nd visit. They found it surprising that he ate food at all. One older woman, a mother, approached him and Mike tentatively with that sickly sweet smile he recognizes oh so well from similar women in Kansas. She approached and said “You know Superman, we’ll like you even if you don’t eat food, or know what football is.” She stank of superiority, and a hint of fear. From her fingertips wafted the scent of a clementine. Did she think she was helping, Clark wondered. He considered ignoring her, turning back to Mike and telling him that Sarah was sure to get into Princeton, and he would be happy to write a letter of recommendation, but Clark was Superman, not Batman. He couldn’t ignore things he didn’t like by scowling and pretending he didn’t notice whatever pointless opinion someone tried to peddle. So he turned, smiling that perfect, Superman smile, and explained to the woman that he was just a big fan of Mike’s hotdog, and was just so hungry after flying to Oregon earlier today to deal with that pesky little wildfire. “But thank you for the concern,” he continued, all smiles and feigned attentiveness. By the time he had finished sating the woman’s worries, Mike was done grilling his hotdog, and had even added the toppings he knew Superman enjoyed. Clark pulled 5 dollars from the sleeve of his suit, and grabbed a water. Soda would just explode everywhere when he tried to open it after flying. “Keep the change,” he said to Mike, before flying above Metropolis to eat his hotdog in peace. 

Those  _ looks _ , that phony worry about his pop culture knowledge and whether or not he had to  _ pretend _ was exhausting, once he realized it was happening. Nightwing had once asked him if he knew who the spice girls were. Funnily enough, it was other immigrants in Metropolis who tended to understand it the best. While he calmly explained to this person or the next that yes, he did need to breathe, just not as often, and yes, he does have a birthday, and yes, he does know what the Bachelor is but no, he doesn’t watch it, it was other immigrants which shared an exhausted look with him. A look that said “I'm tired of validating myself at every turn with every person I meet.” He was thankful for their casual comradery, when he received it.

Frustratingly, it was Batman who gave him those looks most of all. Suspicious at every turn, every comment, every Star Wars reference and every idiom. He would give the alien before him a look of hatred and suspicion. He looked at Superman like he was a puzzle in need of immediate solving--like he was lying. Clark would hate it if he wasn’t so used to it by now.

As far as Clark knew, Batman didn’t know that Superman was Clark Kent--not yet, at least (it was only a matter of time, he supposed). Superman knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne, however. It wasn’t hard, in retrospect, for Clark to unravel the secret of Gotham’s Bat. He had to be rich to afford all the gadgets. He was a white man in his late thirties, early forties. Exceptional physical condition, blue eyes. He worked with an older british man, or more specifically, an older british man worked  _ for _ him, if the constant ‘sirs’ were any indication. Okay, the last one may have been aided in part by Clark’s super hearing, but Clark was a journalist, and would be a fool to turn down any lead. He likely lived in Gotham and led a secretive lifestyle. It took Clark a week of true investigative journalism before he was sure.

He never gave any indication he knew--he figured that would only lead to a huge fight, with hurt feelings and accusations of betrayal thrown around for no reasonable reason. So, he continued as normal. On the rare occasion Clark Kent was sent to a Gotham gala or charity event in which Bruce Wayne would be in attendance, he avoided the man. Until today, Clark had never run into the illustrious playboy billionaire. 

Today, however, luck and careful avoidance didn’t seem to be on his side. He ran into Bruce Wayne in the bathroom of all places. They weren’t alone, thank god. A man stood stiffly in the corner holding towels, and two business men with suits more expensive than Clark’s apartment chatted about the S&P 500 while washing their hands. Bruce was peeing, surveying his surroundings under a guise of a drunken eye wandering. Really, once you knew the secret, it wasn’t too hard to see through his facade. His habit of wearing suits everywhere he went wasn’t just a projection of wealth, but a way to conceal the various scars he had surely amassed over the years. The idiot playboy attitude kept him from being taken too seriously, and it allowed him to be spontaneous in his actions--cancelling plans 3 minutes before they were supposed to take place, buying the Daily Planet on a tuesday afternoon, leaving a function early due to drunkeness. It was genius, and oh so fragile, Clark thought as he heard urine splash against the ceramic bowl two urinals over. Clark hated public restrooms. If he let his senses wander or focus on anything in the room, he was surely to gag. He had made the mistake once in high school, pent up and angry about something, storming into the boys bathroom in 5th period, after lunch. He vomited past the sink after noticing the particles of fecal matter floating in the air all around him, smelling the acidic urine and period blood deeper in the pipes, past where they connected with the women’s toilets. He was loath to make the same mistake again.

“You’re Clark Kent,” the billionaire said, still peeing, pulling Clark from his thoughts, “the reporter, right?”

There was no reason for Bruce Wayne  _ or  _ Batman to know who Clark Kent was individually.  _ Perhaps _ , thought Clark, lazily,  _ Bruce had finally figured it all out _ .

Another thing people tended not to expect from Superman: he was a very good liar. This wasn’t his first rodeo, as his Pa had liked to say when Clark was younger, he had been doing this whole Superman thing for a while now, and knew how to think on his feet. Luckily, he wasn’t in any hot water quite yet, and he could respond to the billionaire like any reporter would.

To say he ‘put on’ his best ‘naive and starstruck reporter’ face on in response to Bruce’s question would be a lie--he had been playing the part since he left his apartment and headed to Gotham for this ridiculous assignment. Therefore, there was no adjustment to his person when Clark said, with a hint of ‘who, me?’ in his inflection, “er… yes! It's a pleasure.” He even held out his hand for a handshake, before awkwardly lowering it back to his dick, shaking it out and shoving it back in his pants. He would have laughed at himself if he wasn’t so proud of his own helpless performance.

Bruce returned in kind, snorting drunkenly at the gesture, before, Clark assumed by the sound of a zipper and the quiet shuffling, shoving his own dick back into his pants. Clark didn’t feel the need to use his x-ray vision to check; Some things could be inferred, or didn’t need to be known at all. Bruce hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, of course, Clark would have smelled it. The two men discussion the stock market had each had at least 3 champagnes each, and the employee in the corner had had a swig of vodka in the last 40 minutes, likely from the asian server he passed earlier, who had a small flask tucked in the inner left breast pocket of her uniform. The smell had permeated some of the other younger employees upon his initial stroll through the venue. Hey, at least she was sharing. No, Bruce had had nothing but ginger ale tonight, and those little cake-pops from the ostentatious cake-pop tree over at the dessert table. Chocolate raspberry, by the smell of it. They were both washing their own hands now, Clark noticed, the two men discussing stocks long gone.

After he had washed his hands, Clark turned back to his ally and fellow crimefighter, and introduced himself.

“Sorry about--” he gestured awkwardly to the urinal with one hand, rubbing the back of his neck with the other, “Anyways, it's nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand, which Bruce took with a flash of humor in his eyes. Clark could always gauge his heartbeat, he reasoned. Try to figure out if Bruce knew by examining the scent his sweat left, the dilation of his eyes, the way he breathed, the speed of his heart as it pumped blood. But, he figured, this was more of a challenge, and it kept him on his toes. Plus, the last thing he wanted to do was get lost in the examination of one Bruce Wayne, and find himself having looked  _ too  _ interested in the seconds it would take him. No, he decided, he would play this like anyone else would.

Bruce waved off the apology, meeting Clark’s hand with a firm grip. Clark did not match the grip, wincing ever so slightly.  _ God, I am really playing this up _ , he thought, wiping his wet hands on his suit pants after pretending to assume there were no towels, before looking at the boy in the corner and pretending to bashfully put two and two together. If Bruce  _ did  _ know this was all an act,he must be enjoying the show at least, Clark reasoned.

“While I have you,” Clark asked, as the two walked out of the bathroom themselves, “Do you mind giving me a quote for the Daily Planet? I don’t think I’m getting reimbursed for my taxi fare unless I get at least one important person to impart their wisdom tonight,” Clark joked, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand again. He probably would have rubbed through the bone by now had he been human, with as often as he did it in an attempt to look sheepish.

“Someone on my staff has submitted a quote, I’m sure,” Bruce slurred. With every moment that passed, Clark felt himself be examined further by a seemingly uninterested and inebriated gaze. Clark was left to wonder if he was catching onto something, or if he did this to everyone. Either way, he could feel himself be dissected under the man’s gaze. It wasn’t necessarily a new feeling, he worked with some of the best journalists in the world as a day job, and with suspicious civilians and brooding and untrusting vigilantes in his spare time. Still, it was almost unnerving, if he wasn’t so excited at the prospect. What if he figured it out tonight? Would he tell Clark that he knew his little secret? Or would he hold it in like Clark has, use it as a weapon when it would be most effective? And what if he already knew, and Bruce’s examination was working towards the same thing Clark’s was--confirmation, curiosity.

It was all rather fascinating.

All too quick, it ended. A woman with sharp eyes and a slim dress approached, pulling Bruce away to the open bar.

When Clark clamored out of the taxi much later that night, he heard Bruce’s heartbeat in his apartment. So he had figured it out, then.

Still, he played the role. He was sitting on Clark’s couch when he approached the door. There didn’t seem to be any listening devices or guns or kryptonite set up, Clark noted with a quick sweep of his x-ray vision--he figured it was fair game in his own apartment. Bruce had his phone in his left pocket, and an earpiece, which had Alfred on the other line, breathing softly and typing something Clark didn’t have the energy to figure out at the moment. So, he pretended to fumble with and drop his keys under a guise of exhaustion, and entered his apartment after a quiet curse, just to let Bruce know he was here, in case he didn’t know already.

He even pretended to be scared for a moment, freezing while he shrugged off his coat, laughing awkwardly at the figure on his couch, “Mr. Kratz? This isn’t your apartment. You live on the next floor up,” he said to the figure.

“We both know I look nothing like Mr. Kratz, Clark,” said Bruce, rising from his couch and dusting non-existent dust from his trousers. 

Had it been earlier in the day, perhaps Clark would have kept up the little role. He found it fun, at times, to play useless and dimwitted. But it was late, and the shadows of drowsiness were starting to descend. Plus, he was in his own damn apartment. So instead, he sighed, and headed for the fridge.

“Would you like a ginger ale, Bruce?” he asked, allowing the cool air from the fridge to wash over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I was drunk at 2 AM when I wrote this. I mean, I edited, but still. Feel free to let me know if y'all would be interested in more of this! I have a little bit more written up, but would be happy to write more if there's an interest.


	2. Thanks for breaking in. Want a Ginger Ale?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please read the title of this chapter in the voice that that guy on youtube who summarizes history.

Before I knew the identity of the infamous Gotham Bat, I had always assumed ‘Batman’ was the man’s mask. That no man could be so angry and vengeful at all times of the day, and that there was another side of him, a completely different side of him, like there’s another side of me. When I figured it out, however, my theory quickly fell apart. ‘Brucie’ Wayne was no less of a facade than the cowl he wore while prowling over the rooftops of Gotham. It was painfully obvious Bruce didn’t enjoy himself during the expensive galas and parties to anyone who bothered to pay attention.

In reality, Bruce Wayne was much more like me than I was comfortable admitting. There weren’t two sides of us, but three. There was the side that faced the worst parts of the world. Batman and Superman. Batman was vengeful and cruel, while Superman was optimistic and godlike. Then there was the second face. Brucie Wayne and Clumsy Clark. These were the covers we used most often--the side of us that acquaintances and coworkers saw. I suppose I’m lucky. I can be closer to my true self with my second face. All I have to do is slouch a bit, don a pair of glasses, and pretend I don’t notice a vast majority of what I notice. At times, I can still be inquisitive (I am still an award winning reporter, after all), and I can feel like I did as a child in Smallville. Bruce on the other hand… Isn’t so lucky. It's not just coworkers or people on the street he must impress. The whole world could watch him, if they wanted to. ‘Bruce Wayne’ is a household name for the citizens of Gotham--only the older citizens of which pity him. He became an instant hit on social media platforms, gaining a massive following of over a million people upon his first few hours of joining Instagram. Thus, whenever I see him, I am starkly reminded of how fake Brucie Wayne is. His ‘casual glance’ to the bar cart is calculated and practiced, and surely includes a count of security cameras and individuals in attendance. Brucie Wayne does not exist.

Hopefully, if you live the double life we live, you can show your third face to a few people. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. The face I show Lois, Ma and Pa. The face of a man who has seen and experienced horrors beyond belief, but doesn’t need to pretend like he’s invincible in the face of it. A part of me that doesn’t need to slouch or wear glasses, but who doesn’t wear a cape either. A part of me that can make comments about that alien I met last week while drinking a beer on my couch with my mother. I can only hope that someone--Alfred or Dick or Jason maybe--gets to see Bruce’s third face. Am I seeing it now, as Bruce sits on my couch? Or is this another disguise?

Clark pulls himself from his thoughts. It’s only been a fraction of a second--his arm hasn’t even reached the ginger ale in his fridge yet. Bruce hasn’t confirmed he wants one yet, but Martha Kent would whack him across the arm if she learned he wasn’t giving his guests drinks when they stopped by, so he grabbed it anyway. For himself, he grabbed a beer. Alcohol didn’t affect him, of course, but it was his dad’s favorite brand, and therefore the brand he used to drink when he was a teenager, so it held nostalgic value. Plus, it was on sale last week, so he was fully stocked, and needed to free some fridge space.  _ Dammit, I need to use that ground beef before it goes bad _ , he thought.

“You could've turned the light on, Bruce. I’m sure my lighting bill would’ve managed,” he jested, handing the cold ginger ale to the man, who grabbed it lightly.

“You know I own this apartment complex?” Bruce asked, crossing his legs on Clark’s coffee table.  _ Was this his idea of small talk? _

“And yet,” Clark said, flicking off his beer’s cap with his thumb, “you still crawled in through the window.”

Bruce didn’t say anything to that, but grinned softly, opening his own ginger ale and taking a swig.

There was a silence between them, and Clark couldn’t decide if it was comfortable or awkward. On the one hand, the two of them knew each other at some level. Batman and Superman were fast allies (after the initial moralistic disagreements, of course), and had been known to make the occasional wry comment to each other on the battlefield. They had even saved each other’s asses a few times in the past couple years. On the other hand, they were meeting each other again. A more honest introduction. Batman had met Superman. Brucie Wayne had met Clumsy Clark. And now, maybe, Bruce Wayne was meeting Clark Kent. Clark stepped over Bruce’s legs, still crossed on his Ikea coffee table, and sat beside the billionaire, taking a swig of his beer. He didn’t speak--Bruce could do that.  _ He’s  _ the one who had snuck into Clark’s apartment, after all. The burden wasn’t then on  _ Clark  _ to make sure Bruce didn’t fall into any awkward pauses. 

“How long have you known?” Bruce asked after a moment, eyes trained on a small scratch in the corner of Clark’s small flat-screen.

Clark pretended to think for a moment, before stopping himself. The masks were harder to remove than anticipated, then. “Four months,” he said.

“Huh,” Bruce said, chuckling softly, “I’ve only known for three.”

“One months ahead of the world’s greatest detective? I think I deserve an award for that at the very least.”

“Well, it took me some time to realize you even  _ had _ a secret identity. Most people think you sleep in that spaceship of yours in the mountains.”

“Be honest,” Clark asked, finally glancing over to Bruce, who still avoided eye contact, “Did I reference the Chiefs too much?”

Bruce only snorted, taking another swig of ginger ale. Clark didn’t know how long they sat in silence, but he eventually finished his beer, and fought the urge to grunt and feign back pain as he rose from the couch. Rinsing the bottle at the sink, he spoke over his shoulder.

“Stay as long as you’d like, Bruce. The couch pulls out, and there’s some blankets in the closet down the hall,” he pretended not to notice Bruce set his ginger ale can down on the coffee table, walk to Clark’s window, and climb silently out as Clark spoke. He rinsed Bruce’s can too, throwing them both into his small recycling bin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have to google "Kansas NFL team" in the process of making this chapter? Yes. We must suffer for our art, I suppose.


	3. Lead-Lined Offices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up rewriting this entire chapter because it jumped much too far into the future than I was comfortable with. Therefore, this takes place hours after the last chapter ended.

Hours after Bruce’s visit, as the middle of the night turned into the tentative beginning of a new day, Clark was finished with the second draft of his puff piece on the gala, emailing it over to his editor (who was sure to rip it apart and demand a rewrite). As he listened to the pair of robins on the roof of his apartment complex chirp happily, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about something as trivial as threats of a rewrite, sending the draft anyway.

It was 4 AM, he noted dully. He felt the faint shadows of fatigue loom behind him, and realized he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. He didn’t  _ need _ to sleep, of course. He hadn’t needed to in years. But when he didn’t, he lost bits of himself. The more human facets of his personality--apologizing and heartbreak and a great many other things--fell away as something foreign took its place. Years ago, when Clark had just started his adventures as Superman, had just begun testing and expanding the limits of what he could do, sleep fell away from his schedule easily. With 24 hours in a day, he had plenty of time to be Kal-El and Clark Kent. It wasn’t until he came home from the Daily Planet to see his mother in his kitchen that he considered he may have miscalculated.

“I see you on the news,” Martha had said, tutting at her son over a pot of broth she dutifully stirred, “I see that look in your eyes, like when the neighbor's dog had rabies…”

“You’re saying I look like I have rabies?” asked Clark, confused.

“You don’t look  _ human _ , Clark,” they were harsh words, and Martha gripped her spoon tightly with regret, wishing she could articulate what she was trying to say like she could have when she was younger.

Clark waved off the accusation easily. “I can’t just ignore people when they’re hurting, Mom--”

“You’re hurting them more by losing yourself like you have been. The more you forget things like food, sleep, porn for god's sake!” 

“Mom-” Clark had cut in, shocked.

“No, Clark! Listen to me. You can’t save them if you don’t know what they need saving from. And you’re starting to forget,” Martha said with a huff, turning back to her broth, and refusing to say another word on the matter.

He hadn’t understood. But Martha Kent was his mother, and Clark listened to his mother, even when she didn’t make sense. So he slept that night, and he slept the night after that. He slept every night until he understood what his mother had been trying to say. And he tried to sleep every night after that realization too, lest he become the sleepless Superman once again.

The night after the gala, after Bruce, after 24 hours without sleep, he shot a quick email to the Daily Planet, letting them know he’d be late this morning, and he took a nap. When he woke, Clark only had two emails. One from his editor, asking for a rewrite, and one from HR, confirming his time off.

After 20 minutes of lounging in bed doing nothing, Clark made breakfast. He listened to the robins on the rooftop as he pulled out his frying pan. Their first egg was hatching. He could hear it crack softly from the inside, he could hear the child’s heartbeat. He put the frying pan back, and had toast for breakfast.

Around 1 PM, Clark arrived at the Daily Planet. Lois was at her desk, grinning as Clark approached, veggie straw held in her hand like a cigarette.

“Clark! Too busy nursing a hangover to come to work today?” she asked. Lois knew, of course, that Clark couldn’t  _ get _ hangovers, but smiled and narrowed her eyes like she didn’t. Clark only looked sheepish.

“That gala puff piece kept me up later than I was expecting,” he explained to Lois and Steve Lombard, who was trying to grab a veggie straw from Lois’s bag while she looked at Clark. In that exact moment, Clark wished desperately he was in love, and he choked on his spit at the tidal wave of a realization.

“Hey man, you okay?” asked Steve, who was now chewing on a veggie straw.

“Yeah,” said Clark between coughs, looking at Lois, who was looking back strangely.

“Everything okay, big guy?” she asked.

“Of course! Sorry, I just realized I’m late for a meeting with Cat. She wanted to discuss the… uh… article,” Clark finished lamely, waving Lois and Steve a goodbye and walking towards the storage room, listening as he walked. Lucy was listening to Al Jazeera through one earbud connected to her computer; through the other, Clark learned of two journalists who had been assumed dead were revealed to be held hostage by a terrorist cell in the middle east.  _ Good _ , thought Clark,  _ something to do.  _ He loosened his tie.

One week after the gala, Clark found a bug in his phone. It screeched at a volume above the audible human range, and was set to a very low volume at that. To Clark, however, it was a constant annoyance ringing in the back of his mind. He couldn’t just  _ replace  _ the phone, he reasoned as he considered throwing it down his garbage disposal. He didn’t have the money, and had splurged on the purchase of this phone when he bought it only a few months prior. A mistake, apparently. He couldn’t get the bug out himself, it had been placed deep in the wiring of his phone, past where he could access without breaking the damn thing. Clark was much better at repairing tractors than he was dissecting cell phones. He would have guessed the phone had simply been replaced if not for the single grain of Saudi Arabian sand in the charging port, which he hadn’t been able to remove since his last trip, or the scratch on the screen from the time he had dropped in the lunchroom at the Daily Planet pretending to be startled by Steve ‘sneaking up on him’. The scratch was the same as the day prior down to a molecular level, this couldn’t be a new phone. There were no new fingerprints, but it was no matter, Clark already knew who had placed the bug. He would’ve texted the man had he known his number.

Clark considered just leaving the device in his phone. His parents had taught him to purposefully dull his senses as a child, and it was a tool he used regularly to this day. He learned early in life that there were things he didn’t need to see or hear or understand, things that were better left in the dark abyss of the unknown. He could drown this bug out just as he could drown out the groans of his co-workers at the Daily Planet taking a shit, or the sounds of his parents having sex when Clark was a teenager. And it wasn’t like he was necessarily mad at Bruce for placing the device, however he managed to do it. Clark himself would check up on Bruce from time to time. He just used… different methods. And he trusted Bruce with his identity more than he did most of the United States government. On the other hand, there was always the chance that Bruce wasn’t involved at all, however unlikely. He needed to be sure, and that meant going to Gotham.

A quick Google search was all Clark needed to find the man’s address. He didn’t have a car, and hadn’t gotten around to destroying the latest Russian surveillance satellite watching Superman, so he settled on the train. The train was dreadful, thought Clark. It smelled  _ horrible,  _ and a Gothamite spent the entire ride staring at Clark with a crazed and hollow look in her eyes. He would destroy that dreaded satellite tonight. He was foolish for leaving it up there for so long, the president's orders be damned. It was only through painstaking measures on Clark’s part that the satellite hadn’t figured out Superman’s identity thus far, and with every passing day the chance that he would slip up or the Russians would get that one piece of information they needed rose. Clark spent most of the train ride considering the geopolitical ramifications of destroying the satellite while avoiding eye contact with the woman. Maybe he’d just throw an asteroid at it. He’d have to find an asteroid first, of course. Hell, he could use a pebble, as long as it was thrown with enough force and in the right place.

From the train, which chugged to a halt in the northern half of Gotham City, he boarded a subway due further north, out of Uptown Gotham and across the Kane Memorial Bridge. From there, he caught a taxi. Bruce surely knew Clark’s destination by the time he had boarded the first train, but Clark still daydreamed about the look of surprise he would never see grace the billionaire’s face. In the taxi, Clark made casual conversation with his driver, an Irish man who was more than happy to tell his stories of his home, and kept asking questions like “have you met the president?” when Clark told him he was a reporter for the Daily Planet. Since technically,  _ Clark Kent _ had  _ not  _ met the president, Clark didn’t feel too bad for letting down the sweet man.

They arrived at Wayne Manor much too early, in Clark’s opinion. Ahead would only be arguments and sly remarks. Clark wished nothing more than to chat with the taxi driver for another 40 minutes. But if he turned back now, Batman could surely call Superman a coward, and Clark did not have the energy to deal with such an accusation. So, he paid the man, promising that yes, he would try that restaurant the next time he was in town, and waved him off as he drove away. When he turned towards Wayne Manor, Bruce was already in sight, leaning casually against the brick wall, traditional scowl on his face.

“Hello Bruce!” Clark said cheerily, waving to the man. If Bruce wanted Clark to be a small-town doe eyed idiot, he’d be one.

“Clark,” Bruce acknowledged, not moving from his spot against the manor’s wall, “What brought you here? See a cat in one of my trees and come over here to get it out?” he grimaced.

“Oh no,” responded Clark with ease, “she got out of the tree herself hours ago. I came for something else.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, hints of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. I’m busy tonight.”

Had Clark been a little more stupid, he may have glanced at the manor and said something foolish like ‘dinner with Dick and Jason? My, my, Jason found the chocolate chip cookies while you were gone’ But Bruce would have just taken that as a threat or a flex of Clark’s power. Plus, the ‘my, my’s made it sound like one of Gotham’s lunatic crime bosses was saying it.

Instead, Clark just said, “It won’t take but a moment, Bruce.”

Sighing after a moment at Clark’s persistence, Bruce headed back to the Manor, beckoning Clark to follow with a jerk of his chin. With another smile, Clark did just that.

Bruce led the man through the aging halls of Wayne Manor silently. His footsteps were astonishingly quiet compared to the average human, Clark thought as he followed. He didn’t know where Bruce was leading him, but it definitely wasn’t the kitchen, where Jason had just taken his 3rd cookie, undeterred by the glare Dick leveled the younger boy.

As the moments passed, it became clear where Clark was being led. A lead chamber stood before him, impenetrable by Clark’s gaze. Now that he looked, there were multiple of these chambers littered throughout the manor, the contents of which remaining unknown. Bruce opened the room before him, revealing a small office.

“In,” Bruce gruffed with another jerk of his chin, standing impatiently at the door. Clark went in.

Bruce was silent again as he sat behind the large desk, typing away at his computer. It was odd how quiet Bruce was, Clark noted, sitting down opposite the man. As Brucie Wayne, the man didn’t shut up, bragging and gloating to anyone who would listen, which was usually a sizable number. As Batman he would bark out orders to allies and deliver venomous threats to enemies. Now he was just… quiet. In an act of pure instinct, Clark glanced out the room to gauge his surroundings. Nothing, he remembered, staring at a thin sheet of lead. He returned his gaze to Bruce, who was typing stiffly before him.

After a few moments of growing silence between the two men, Clark startled as it became significantly quieter, looking at Bruce, and then his phone. The shrill of the bug in his phone had shut off. Looking a bit closer, he noticed that an electrical current still ran through his phone and the small device.

“You know I know the device is still on, correct?” he dead panned the man before him.

Bruce only narrowed his eyes a fraction more, before switching gears completely, relaxing in the chair and grinning slightly at Clark, “I suppose that’s what a 2-year degree at Pratt Community College gets you. You can’t even tell when a device is being deactivated.”

“Didn’t you get expelled from college?” asked Clark with feign ignorance, before hardening his own facial features, “Just because you turned off the emitter doesn’t mean you can’t still track me. Turn it off, Bruce.”  _ Bruce Wayne would have to work for it if he wanted to stalk Superman _ , thought Clark.

“What if I don’t?” asked Bruce, still wearing Brucie’s mask. His smile looked free and open. Clark saw the tense lines beneath it.

“Then I take it to the genius bar and have them figure it out. I figured you didn’t want your technology in the hands of a naive college student making minimum wage. Was I correct?”

“I’d hire them myself if they managed to find it,” Bruce said, dismissing the comment.

“Turn it off, Bruce,” said Clark, grumpier. 

Bruce chuckled, clearly deciding he had won the spat, but turned the device off from his computer, rising from his seat.

“Thank you for stopping by, Clark. Shall I have Alfred call you a car?” Bruce asked, walking around his desk and opening his office door. On the other side of the door was Jason Todd scrambling from where he was kneeling from the office door, abandoning the glass cup in his hand to roll freely on the hardwood as he made his escape. Dick Grayson leaned against the hallway across from them, laughing at Jason’s desperate scramble.

“I think I’ll find my own way home, actually. The weather is just lovely this time of day, don’t you think, Mr. Wayne?” said Clark, putting on his coat and walking out of the small office. Finally, he could destroy that damned satellite.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Bruce freeze for a fraction of a second before closing the office door once again, trapping both the men inside for a second time.“I will not have you endanger my children’s lives and my identity so that you may flaunt your abilities.” His eyes were cold and dark in the false office light.

Perhaps Bruce noticed the look of shock flash on Clark’s face for a moment as he absorbed the accusation. Perhaps he hadn’t. Clark had always been good at wearing his masks.

“Bruce,” said Clark after a moment, speaking slowly, “I would never put the lives of any children in danger, and have no intention of revealing your identity. Were I to fly home, it would not be traced back to you,” Clark held up his hand before Bruce could interrupt, continuing to speak slow and steady, “However, you clearly prefer I return to my apartment using traditional methods, and so, I am happy to comply.”

They stared at each other for a moment more. Bruce was tense and uncomfortable, Clark could smell the adrenaline spike from his pores, hear his heartbeat jump. As the moment passed, Bruce relaxed a fraction. Clark realized Bruce was completely unreadable when he wanted to be. Had Clark been human, he would have only seen a man who looked bored more than anything else. It was only Clark’s abilities which allowed him to see Bruce for who he truly was, if only for a moment. When the moment of mutual examination ended, Bruce opened the door once more. Jason was long gone, but Dick still leaned against the opposite wall, looking to the two men with a knowing look that unnerved Clark. He was strikingly similar to Bruce, in that way and many more. Without a word, Dick walked away as well, following Jason, who was hiding behind a corner listening to the whole encounter from a safer position.

Behind him, Bruce dialed a number on his phone, speaking softly into the microphone. “Yes, one car,” he said, “No, I don’t care who’s driving. Add a 30% tip. Yes, thank you.”

They were alone in the hallway now. Dick was dragging Jason back to the kitchen by the collar of his shirt.

“He will be here in 20 minutes,” said Bruce, typing away at his phone.

The humor of being driven home by a man who made more money than Clark did didn’t miss the reporter as he was driven from Wayne Manor to his small apartment in Metropolis. The driver was silent throughout the hour-long journey. Clark couldn’t help but prefer the Irish taxi-driver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll have literally no idea how much research was thrown into this chapter. I looked at so many goddamned maps... And then I made up half of it anyway.  
> Also, disclaimer, I have not had a veggie straw since like 8th grade. I haven't even seen a veggie straw since then. But when trying to figure out what Lois Lane would have for lunch, it inexplicably appeared in my head, and I haven't been the same since.
> 
> In this story, Dick is 19 and has spent about a year as Nightwing in Bludhaven. Jason Todd is 15 and has spent about a year as Robin (because, despite what the DCU says, you must be at least 14 for Bruce Wayne to put your life in danger and dress you up in a bright yellow and red suit in the streets of Gotham).
> 
> Also, I wanted to address the changes I've seen on Ao3 recently. I've noticed a lot more people are commenting than they used to. I wonder if this is just the nature of the fandoms I've been posting in (past and present), the quality of my work, or the quarantine the entire globe seems to be under, but I appreciate it either way. I read all of your comments, and am so thankful to all of you for taking a few minutes out of your day to let me know your thoughts on my work. Your comments are the only thing that keeps this fic alive, and I wanted to acknowledge that. Thank you!


	4. Dick Grayson has a Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using the word 'baterang' is questionable enough, but never, I mean /never/, will you see me use the word 'wing-ding' in my writings. That is where I draw the LINE.
> 
> Fair warning: the tags have significantly changed in preparation for this chapter. This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence. Check out the tags, and check out the trigger warnings at the end of the chapter if you are worried.

Dick Grayson was only supposed to stay in Gotham for one more night after Clark left. Bruce found him deep within the Batcave the night before his expected departure. He sat in the spinning leather chair Alfred had installed last year, wearing sweats and a T-shirt with a blanket draped over his shoulders, balancing a bowl of macaroni and cheese on his bent knee. He was typing away at a keyboard in front of him with one hand as he shoveled food into his mouth with the other. 

“You’re going out tonight,” he said, mouth full. Bruce approached him from behind, looking at the monitors before them, comparing the screens to a paper he held in his hand, “The SS Thomas Wayne,” Dick continued, pulling up security footage on the large monitor in the center, showing a large cargo ship docked in Gotham City. Workers had begun unloading shipping containers when it had docked in the morning. But now, as the sun began its gentle descent, different workers would soon arrive to offload a different kind of cargo. Bruce said nothing. Again, Dick continued, “I’m coming.” Bruce glanced at his former ward once again, noticing the hints of his vigilante suit peeking from under his graphic T-shirt. Nightwing, he called himself now. Nightwing unwrapped himself from his blanket and removed his sweats, discarding them on the stone ground of the Batcave, heading for the Batmobile.

“You’re picking those sweats up before you go to bed tonight,” sighed Bruce, breaking his earlier silence before following Dick to the car.

They were silent as Bruce drove south. Tonight was not a night for joking, and Dick had long given up providing constant quips and comic relief. The air in the car was tense, and Bruce couldn’t tell if it was due to what was to come, or what was already here.

Unsurprisingly, it was still Dick who broke the silence first. Some things never change. “Shouldn’t Robin be with you?” he asked. Bruce felt a flare of panic. Was Dick jealous of the new Robin? Did he want to take the mantle up again himself? He stopped himself before he could fall into the rabbit hole of his own thoughts. Dick had given up the mantle of Robin himself. He was happy as Nightwing. He was just curious.

“He had homework,” Bruce said, veering left. They would arrive soon.

“I’m surprised he didn’t sneak out anyway,” said Dick, relaxing a fraction in his seat.

“He did. He’s still in Uptown.”

Dick only chuckled, “Then I suppose we should finish things here before he catches up.”

Bruce pulled into a narrow alley. They were still a few blocks off from their destination, but Bruce stopped the engine anyway, climbing out of the car. A full frontal approach was fine on normal occasions, but tonight was different. They had to be careful, both men understood that. Thus, they found themselves leaping from rooftop to rooftop to get closer to the docks. Their grappling hooks dug into the cement of Gotham’s rooftops. The SS Thomas Wayne was still a few blocks away, but they made progress in the silence. Bruce took the time to examine Dick’s footwork. He had become quieter in Bludhaven, if just by a fraction.

They were early. Bruce didn’t mind. The docks sat quiet and dark, but neither vigilante was fool enough to believe them empty. Beneath a deceptive layer of quiet, the docks were crawling with life. Nevertheless, it would still be an hour or two before anything happened. Sensing this, Dick’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. They were on a rooftop only three stories high, overlooking where the transport vehicle was expected to arrive.

“So…” Dick said, breaking the silence once more. “What’s your play with Superman?”

“Not the time,” was Bruce’s only response, still looking vigilantly at the docks before him.

“Come on, B,” said Dick, adopting the nickname Jason had started using in the past few months, “You install a speaker into Superman’s cell phone and you don’t want me to ask about it? Didn’t even look like you could track the damn thing from the schematics I saw.”

“You breaking into my computer?” gruffed Bruce. Dick chuckled. They both knew Bruce had never rescinded Dick’s access when Dick left town. Silence overtook them once again, but it was no longer comfortable; Bruce knew how Dick got in moments like this. He knew the boy wouldn’t let it go until he got an answer.

“It was a test,” he finally said, still looking at the docks below.

“Well, did he pass?” asked Dick, almost giddy as Bruce provided information so freely.

“Depends on who you ask,” was Bruce’s only response.

An hour passed, and then another. Still, no truck arrived. Bruce looked over to Dick, expecting him to grouse about how bored he was. He had forgotten for a moment that Dick had become a man recently, if still a young one. Still, some habits die hard. Nightwing was sitting at the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling into the breeze below, salty off the shore and smelling faintly of rotting fish. When Dick was Robin, Bruce had thought he had nudged that unfortunate habit out of his ward.

“It’s dangerous,” he had said all those years ago, hints of anger in his voice, “If you’re caught off guard, your reaction time is slowed by having to stand up. I could easily kick you off this rooftop.”

Dick had groaned and waved off Bruce’s concerns then, only changing his position when Bruce threatened to bench Robin until he fixed it.

Now, Bruce only needed to gently kick Dick’s leg and look at him knowingly before Dick groaned, pushing himself into a squatting position.

The truck pulled into the docks just as Dick opened his mouth to speak again. The vehicle squeaked as it came to a halt. Two men, heavily armed, jumped from the front cabin of the vehicle. Eight more men, equally heavily armed, jumped from the back of the truck. One of the men from the truck’s cabin barked orders while the other nine listened intently. 

Two men were to stay at the truck, with the driver, who scrolled bored on his phone behind the steering wheel. Two men were to monitor the passage from the boat to the land, while the remaining six men, leader included, were to escort the goods from shipping container 52A to the truck directly.

The three men near the truck were easy to take out. The driver first, who’s phone cracked against the cement as it fell from his hands. The other two men were more alert as they scanned the scene, but with both Batman and Nightwing working in tandem, it took mere seconds to incapacitate them, all without alerting the 2 men guarding the cargo ship. Batman and Nightwing zip tied the unconscious men at their wrists and ankles, faces pressed into the cold concrete, before moving onto the men guarding the cargo ship. One managed to cry out a warning before being knocked unconscious. Bruce hoped silently that the warning was drowned out by the sound of lapping waves against the docks. He did not hope for his own sake.

By the time they had snuck along shipping containers to reach container 52A, it had already been opened.  _ Messy, _ thought Bruce. He noticed silently that Nightwing had not uttered a word. The air reeked of urine and feces and  _ death _ , noticeable even as the salty breeze whipped the scent away. Bruce watched as boys and girls, none seemingly over 15, were half-dragged from the shipping container, tripping over their own feet, eyes glazed over and dull. Men shouted at them, waving their guns in warning. The children were handcuffed or similarly bound, and Bruce could see their skin burn red under the tight hold of their restraints. Dick stifled a gasp, biting on his thumb and choking down the sound. Bruce refused to look to his former ward. Refused to let his own throat close up at the sight before him. He had seen worse.

It would be hard to attack all six men without risking the lives of the children. The frustratingly  _ human  _ nature of both Batman and Nightwing ensured they were only seen when they wanted to be seen. This caused chaos and stray bullets. Stray bullets were not an option now. Still, they couldn’t allow the children to be escorted off the cargo ship. There were too many variables to control once that occurred. A ‘batarang’ would be worthless to disarm these men, their semi-automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. Nightwing’s equivalent, however, was dull, and circular. It could be used to knock out one man, maybe two before the real fight began. Still, they had to be fast.

They were fast. The men fell like chess pieces before them. Two taken out with Nightwing's projectile, one choked out by Batman. Three remained before it got messier. One shot wildly above him, screaming, "It's the Bat!" in terror. A projectile against the temple caused him to fall like a puppet whose strings were cut. The second collapsed under Nightwing’s weight as he dropped from above. It was the last man who caused the most trouble. He was smart, for a criminal. While Nightwing and Batman attacked the 5 other men, he grabbed a girl in front of him and held a knife to her throat, gleaming dangerously in the faint moonlight. Nightwing froze, holding an escrima stick above his head. Batman saw his former ward’s hand shake minutely.

“I’ll kill ‘er!” he shouted over the roaring waves.

“I know,” growled Batman, flinging a batarang into the man’s shoulder. He shouted in pain as the blade embedded into his shoulder, dropping the knife. Nightwing ripped the girl from his arms before swinging his other arm down, cracking the man’s jaw with his escrima stick over and over again until he fell. The children, girl included, ran like bed bugs under a flashlight. They scattered and screamed, sluggish and slow in their state. They did not know of the infamous Gotham Bat. Most of them barely knew English. Luckily, they were still on the cargo ship. There were limited routes of escape. Bruce heard sirens in the distance. Commissioner Gordan was here—good. Nightwing and Batman dragged the men into a pile as the children ran, zip-tying their wrists and ankles as they had done back at the truck.

It didn’t take long for Omor Ibanescu, nephew of minor Gotham crime boss and human trafficker Dragos Ibanescu, to wake up. The first thing he noticed was the smell: urine, shit, and death. He noticed the walls next, as his eyes refocused. The night sky no longer sat cloudy above him. To his left he saw a number. 52A. Still, he returned to the smell. It only took seconds before he was vomiting this evening’s Jumări on a pair of boots—the Bat’s boots. He tried to scurry back when he realized, but found he couldn’t move. Maybe it was fear. The Bat had been terrorizing Gotham for 8 years, and now he looked down at Omor, disgust and hatred written clear in his posture and expression even as he wore the cowl.

A small figure was curled up in the corner of shipping compartment 52A, covered gently in a soiled sweater. A young boy. Nightwing checked for a pulse. There was none. Batman’s voice modulator was on when he spoke down to the man, gravely and slow, yanking Omor up by his collar, “Vomit all you like.”

They left the man in the shipping container, surrounded by the piss and shit and death he had organized. Dick cradled the young boy against his chest, carrying his chilled corpse to safety. The Bat closed the shipping container. The lock and chain which had caged children only minutes prior sat discarded on the ground. Batman secured it to the bars of the shipping container once more, sealing Omor Ibanescu within. He hoped numbly that no one from the GCPD had remembered to bring bolt-cutters. Faintly, Nightwing and Batman heard shouting, saw flashlights.  _ Good. _ Nightwing lowered himself to cold pavement, setting the child down gently. Just over the sound of the waves and sirens they heard the sounds of Omor banging against the shipping container. They had to leave. They had to leave before the police arrived.

Jim Gordon loved this feeling. He loved the lurch in his stomach as the car, blaring blue and red, sped along the roads. These are the things he doesn’t tell Barbara. She might kill him  _ herself  _ if she knew about the parts of the job Jim loved the most.

He sees the bodies first, pulling into the docks behind two other patrol cars. They’re bound and unconscious, face in the cold cement. A flash in the corner of his eye. He pulls out his firearm, leaping from the patrol care like he’s 10 years younger than he is.

“Fan out! Watch your six!” he yells over the commotion.

Jason Todd is bad with kids. Sure, he could talk to other street kids, and he could talk to older kids, seventeen and eighteen, with no issue. Jason Todd was direct and cold and hated baby-talk. He  _ hated _ when he was treated like a child, and assumed, on some level, that all other kids must hate it too. But, when yelling ‘stop!’ to the twelve year old girl running past him on the SS Thomas Wayne just made her run  _ faster _ , tripping over her own feet, he realized that talking  _ down  _ to the girl, as much as he hated the feeling it gave him, rolling in his gut, may be his only option.

So, he slowed down his words. He held up his hands in surrender, trying to show her that he wasn’t a threat. It didn’t seem to be working, but she wasn’t trying to scramble away anymore. Instead, she was just looking up at him with big brown eyes, trembling. He spoke to her, silly, stupid words like “slow down, its okay, you’re safe” until he heard footsteps approaching, a light flashing in his eyes as he turned to look. A police officer, sheathing her gun slowly. She made eye-contact with Jason—no, with Robin.

The officer’s head cocked to the side, seeing the girl for the first time. Maybe she saw the fear, thinly laced in Jason’s eyes. Maybe she didn’t know what else to say, “It’s okay,” she mouthed to Robin, turning off and sheathing her flashlight beside her gun. She, too, showed her hands, empty, to the both of them, “It’s okay,” she said again, aloud this time. Jason scoweled. He hated being treated like a kid.

_Kids._ _They were kids, children, running around the docks, frantic and scared and lost._ Through his radio, James Gordon ordered all weapons sheathed. They were looking for children. Send in a call for ambulances.

Gordon’s phone buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again. Barbara was restless, surely. She could get over it. It buzzed again. He checked it. A single text, from an unknown number.  _ Shipping Container 52A. 20 children. 1 dead, 19 alive. _

“We’re looking for 19 kids!” The commissioner shouted, and then again on his radio, “No one is going home until we find all 19. Where the hell are my ambulances?”

Batman yanked Robin away by the collar, dragging him from the scene. He didn’t know how much Jason had explored the SS Thomas Wayne, but he hoped desperately he hadn’t seen the boy, cold and dead on the cement. Jason protested and hissed under his breath. Bruce didn’t listen. Jason, seeing the look in Bruce’s eyes, grumbled, but followed Dick and Bruce to the Batmobile with minimal protest.

Jason asked questions during the drive. He was angry. He wanted to know why he couldn’t come. He wanted Bruce to know that he  _ helped _ . Bruce said nothing, heart sitting heavy in his chest.

“It’s not  _ fair _ ,” Jason hissed under his breath for the third time. When they reached the Batcave, Jason stalked straight to the manor. Bruce watched him leave. He should say something, he knew, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. There were dead children. Bruce didn’t want Jason to see dead children. Somehow, Bruce knew that trying to explain that would only lead to a fight about how mature Jason was, so Bruce opted for silence instead. Dick was slower than Jason in his movements. He peeled off his suit methodically in the cold Batcave, eyes dull. Bruce heard his soft steps as he padded to the showers. Bruce, at least, understood  _ this  _ feeling. He didn’t have to listen to know Dick was scrubbing himself raw, trying to erase the shadows of death off from his skin and from under his fingernails. He knew it wouldn’t work. Bruce stepped into another shower in the cave, feeling the cold sheen of sweat wash away down the drain. He knew no amount of hot water would allow him to swallow down the bile building up in his throat. As Bruce emerged from the showers, he saw a clean outfit waiting for him, and knew the Batcave would be clean as well—armor and costumes whisked away like nothing happened. Alfred deserved a bonus.

He could hear the moment Dick gave up—Bruce heard a shampoo bottle thrown against the shower wall in frustration. He heard Dick’s ragged breaths as he threw on the clothes Alfred had provided him as well. He heard him storm from the Batcave the same way they had arrived. Bruce followed his former ward tentatively. He had never been good at this part.

Dick was kneeling in the grass by the time Bruce reached him, staring numbly at his own vomit. Silently, Bruce fell to his knees beside the boy, holding him. Dick threw up again, coughing and retching into the grass. Bruce could feel the boy’s heart rate. He remembered for a moment that Dick was only 18. He seemed so much older most of the time. Bruce supposed that was his fault. He didn’t say anything, rubbing the boy’s back soothingly as he held him. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it out of his face. He was still spitting into the grass.

When retching turned to sobbing, Bruce held Dick through that, too. He rubbed away the vomit from the corner of Dick’s mouth with his sleeve. He cradled his son in his arms as Dick had done to the dead boy hours prior. Bruce held him until Dick’s sobbing fell silent too, and he fell asleep in Bruce’s arms, the sun beginning to peak over the horizon. He carried Dick to his old room in the manor. It was a long walk, and Bruce worried that Dick would wake, but he did not. Once Bruce had maneuvered Dick into his bed, he sat on the small stool in the corner of the room, watching as his son’s chest raised and fell. Dick would not feel any better when he woke, Bruce knew. He wouldn’t leave him alone like this.

“Batman, Robin, and a thus far unknown vigilante cracked down on a human trafficking ring last night in Gotham City. Sources are reporting  _ 19 children _ were found on cargo ship SS Thomas Wayne after Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon allegedly received a tip from the ‘Batman’ himself. We will be back in 3 minutes with James Gordon’s official address live from Gotham. Stay tuned  _ here  _ at WGBS News.”

Clark muted his TV, coffee still in hand. As he focused, he could hear Bruce’s light breathing in Gotham. He was likely asleep, Clark thought, listening to Bruce’s steady heartbeat. Beside Bruce, he could hear another heartbeat—either Dick or Jason’s, Clark wasn’t sure. He suspected Dick. Clark felt guilt creep up his neck. Human trafficking—he should’ve known, he should’ve heard something. He should’ve helped somehow. He can’t help but imagine how Jason and Dick saw—children who haven’t yet learned the extent of the world’s cruelty. Bruce, too.  _ Does he allow himself to feel anything, anymore? _ Clark thought, setting down his mug. Maybe there was something Clark could do to make it a little easier.

Bruce woke up with a start a few hours later. He hadn’t wanted to fall asleep. Luckily, Dick was still breathing softly in bed, asleep. To Bruce’s left, on the desk Dick did homework on only a year ago, sat two coffees steaming in paper cups. The label on the cup read ‘Metropolis Select’, and written in Sharpie on the side of the cup read ‘Order for: Superman’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Human Trafficking (children), graphic depictions of violence, imagery centering on urine, feces and vomit, the presence of a dead child, (cruel and) unusual punishment, and the emotional aftermath of seeing human trafficking and a dead child.
> 
> So... yeah, we really went from 0-100 with this story. 
> 
> Let me know what you think? I guess? Sorry?


	5. Groceries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can't ALL be angst (I mean there's still a little but significantly less than last chapter).

“Now we turn to the news which has shocked the nation this past week. Let's turn to in-studio reporter Lucy Grant for the story.”

“Thank you Samuel. It was only two days ago that controversial vigilante  _ Batman  _ unveiled a sinister plot on the docks of his home city of Gotham. After allegedly receiving a tip from the Bat himself, Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon swarmed the docks with police officers, revealing a sight which has been picked up by every major news outlet in the nation.  _ Children, _ nineteen alive and one dead, were found in a shipping container on the cargo ship SS Thomas Wayne. According to Commissioner Gordon’s press release the next morning, these children were kidnapped and shipped all the way from southeast Europe to the Gotham port. The commissioner also claims that the children were likely being trafficked to Gotham to be sold to rich Gotham families as illegally adopted children, or sold into sex slavery. The children, of course, were sent to the hospital for medical examination, and preliminary updates state that while the nineteen children are emaciated and emotionally traumatized, they should all be okay.

“In most recent news, billionaire Bruce Wayne, heir of Wayne Enterprises, held a press conference this morning pledging his financial support for the medical care and relocation of all nineteen children. Here’s a highlight from that very press conference.”

The screen changed to a clip of Bruce Wayne gripping the Wayne Enterprises podium before him. If you looked close enough, you could see his knuckles were white. “Wayne Enterprises will be fully funding the medical care and rehabilitation of the nineteen children found this week, and will be working closely with the GCPD, Gotham City Social Services, and Gotham City Child Protective Services to make sure everything is being done to ensure a favorable future for these children,” Bruce Wayne set down the small script before him, cocking his head with a small grin, as if he was waiting for applause. There was none—instead, a roar of voices surged from the audience as reporters vied for attention. “Ms. Lane,” gestured the billionaire with an air of haughty disinterest.

Lois Lane of the Daily Planet stood swiftly, “Mr. Wayne,” she said crisply, “you’ve been known to attend parties and events with many of the Gotham families under investigation: do you have any response to the claims that these potential criminals are your friends?”

The man was cool and disinterested as he answered, “Ms. Lane, during these… parties,” he punctuated the word with a diminutive twiddle of his fingers, “I shake hands with dozens, if not hundreds of people a _ night _ —I don’t expect you to understand,” he grinned, canines giving him almost a feral air. Some of the reporters laughed politely—nervously. Lois Lane sat back down slowly, never breaking eye contact with the billionaire.

The screen faded out, shifting back to the studio where two people sat expectantly.

“And we’re back. With us we have Gotham City political commentator Ed Lopez here to discuss the conference. Thank you for joining us today, Ed.”

“Thank you for having me Lucy. Now, obviously there were some off-color jokes made in Mr. Wayne’s address earlier this morning, and as a Gotham native, I can tell you this is nothing new from the man. Still, he made some good points in his address and is obviously being very philanthropic in his efforts towards these children.”

“Yes, let's talk about that, Ed. Why do  _ you  _ think this low-level celebrity billionaire is throwing so much money into this? Do you think he actually cares about these children, or is this a publicity stunt?”

“Well, Lucy, I think he likely cares as much as the rest of us do, and I am not here to call Bruce Wayne a heartless monster, but I would  _ not  _ be surprised if this is some publicity stunt to pull him back into the public consciousness. This isn’t the first thing Mr. Wayne has thrown money at, and I’m sure he’d prefer  _ this  _ to be the first news story when you Google his name, rather than, say, the time he bought the entire Gotham Competitive Swimming team so he could take them out to the Caribbean on his boat back in 2010. Additionally,” Ed continued, “let's talk about the cargo ship sized elephant in the room. The cargo ship these children were found on is named the SS Thomas  _ Wayne _ . I am sure  _ Wayne  _ Enterprises isn’t happy with all the unintentional bad publicity their name has been getting in the past two days. I wouldn’t be surprised if CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox,  _ pushed  _ Mr. Wayne to make this speech in an effort to clear the company’s name and give it some good publicity.”

Lucy nodded at Mr. Lopez’s response. “Do you think Bruce Wayne may be  _ personally  _ upset about the tarnish to his name? As I’m sure our older watchers will remember, his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne, were brutally murdered in front of Bruce Wayne when he was a child.”

“It’s very possible, Lucy. Now, we didn’t see it in the clip you showed, but Mr. Wayne mentions  _ later  _ in his press conference that his financial contribution will  _ actually  _ be managed via the ‘Martha Wayne Foundation,’ which is, of course, known for its support for the arts as well as its work in finding orphaned children forever homes.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “But my question still stands, Mr. Lopez, do you believe that Bruce Wayne is personally upset at the connection that is being made with the name Thomas Wayne and human trafficking right now in the media?”

Mr. Lopez laughed, “I mean, it’s possible, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this is all above Mr. Wayne’s pay grade. I would go as far to say that this speech was the first time Bruce Wayne has been sober since he was  _ sixteen _ . I honestly doubt he even  _ knew  _ about this tragedy before his PR rep told him.”

“Fascinating thoughts as always, Ed. Thank you so much for joining us today, even if it is to discuss such a dark topic. We love having you in the studio,” Lucy turned to the camera, “Now, when we get back: Is the GCPD taking the right steps to ensure these children’s anonymity? Former White House lawyer Robert Bauer joins us to discuss.”

The small flat-screen turned black, and Dick whipped around in surprise at the soft click of his TV remote. He hadn’t been snuck up on in a long time.

“You look terrible,” said a voice, and Clark Kent was standing behind him, takeout in one hand, TV remote in the other. 

Dick signed, relaxing a fraction. Clark was right, as much as Dick hated to admit it. There were bags under his eyes, he hadn’t slept well since the manor—and had a growing theory that he slept so well the night after the docks only because Bruce had drugged him; It wouldn’t be the first time he had done so. Nevertheless, there was a creak in his neck that flared up in pain when he turned. He hadn’t shaved. His blue eyes looked dull and lost, a sad comparison to their usual sharp sapphire.

“You don’t look so great yourself, Superman,” Dick tried to joke, feeling the smile die in the back of his throat, “Bruce send you over here?” he finished lamely, turning back to his TV, which was still defiantly dark. Even Dick’s TV listened to Superman, he thought lamely.

“Nah,” said Clark, dropping the oily paper bag on the coffee table in front of Dick, “He wouldn’t know how to ask.”

Dick Grayson could be an asshole when he wanted to, but he wasn’t  _ rude, _ and Clark had somehow figured out not only Dick’s favorite takeout place in Bludhaven, but his favorite  _ order _ , if the smell was any indication. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Thanks,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the bag into his lap and hunching over it protectively.

“Anytime,” said Clark easily. Dick stopped, hit with the realization that Clark’s word was completely genuine. He knew in an instant that he could call Clark at any time of day, anywhere in the world, and Clark would be there. It wasn’t because Dick was special, he reasoned, tearing open the bag, it was because  _ Clark  _ was _. _

Dick ate slowly. He wasn’t relishing the food—he hadn’t afforded himself such a luxury in the past couple days; He just knew he’d throw it up if he ate any faster, having survived on beer and stale cereal alone since his return to Bludhaven two days prior. He supposed it was too much to ask of Clark to buy Dick groceries. He was more scared that Clark would say  _ yes _ than the idea that he would say no.

“I’m fine, you know,” Dick tried, turning around to see that Clark had left. He heard him in the kitchen, chuckling. Dick tried again anyway, “this is just how orphan teenagers live once they get out on their own. Nothing to worry about,” it barely sounded convincing in his own frustratingly human ears.

He heard Clark laugh again. Dick watched him walk into sight, leaning against the archway to the kitchen, looking at Dick inquisitively. He  _ hated  _ it. He hated what Clark might see.

“You’re as much of an orphan as I am, Dick,” Clark said eventually, before walking back into the kitchen, out of sight once more.

And Dick didn’t know what to do with… whatever that statement was.

“Take a shower, kid,” was the last thing Dick heard Clark say before he left, presumably out of the same window he arrived through.

Dick found a fully stocked kitchen an hour later when he finally lifted himself off of his living room couch.

Two days later, Jason was still brooding. Bruce watched it in the way he walked: the tightness in his shoulders and neck, the way he shoveled meals into his mouth silently without any snarky comments about being able to cook his own food. They were subtle things. Passive aggressive comments made under his breath, glares thrown over his shoulder. In the streets, as Robin, Jason was crueler than usual. Bruce knew his latest ward was trying to prove something to him. He was too busy to figure out what he was trying to prove, however.

“You know I watch the news, Bruce,” Jason said one day in the Batcave as he and Bruce sparred.

“Most people do,” Bruce replied dryly. Jason still left his left side exposed when he spoke. He let Jason talk, let him make snippy comments and let down his guard and focus as anger took the place of efficiency. When he was weakest, Bruce kicked the boy in the side, leaving him sprawled across the mat unceremoniously. Jason leapt to his feet, scowling at his mentor.

“I’m not a  _ child, _ Bruce. I’ve  _ seen  _ dead kids before,” he waved off the thought like it was nothing. Like it should be nothing, “You should’ve let me come to the docks with you and Nightwing.”

Bruce didn’t flinch at Jason’s words, but he felt the urge buzz under his skin. Jason talked about his youth brashly, unaware or uncaring of how it affected others. Bruce wanted to bite back. He wanted to grab the kid by the shoulders and say, “you shouldn’t have  _ had  _ to see dead kids. And the idea that seeing more without being phased is a point of  _ pride  _ for you doesn’t just make me sick, it makes me a  _ failure _ .” But if he did that, Jason would just scoff and call Bruce an idiot.

Bruce settled for, “you had homework,” with a shrug, grabbing a water bottle Alfred had left out earlier.

“Yeah,” Jason countered, “ _ Chemistry.  _ You taught me all that stuff  _ years  _ ago. I could pass that class in my  _ sleep _ —and you,” he accused with a pointed finger, “are changing the subject.” 

“I had Nightwing,” retorted Bruce quickly, “I didn’t need you.”

That, Bruce immediately realized, was the wrong thing to say. Jason raised himself on the streets of Gotham City—and thus, hated to be caught vulnerable, physically or mentally. But after so many years, Bruce knew when he had hurt the boy’s feelings. He could see the boy’s arrogant smile falter for a moment.  _ Fuck. _

Jason had stormed off before Bruce could think of something to say to rectify the situation. He had never been good at ‘sorrys’.

One day later, Clark Kent was trying to listen in on a cruise ship off the Caribbean coast when he twisted the knob to the storage room on the top floor of the Daily Planet, loosening his tie.

“Do you really get changed here?” asked Jason Todd when Clark entered the room. He was sitting criss-cross on four boxes of printer paper stacked on top of each other, perched in the corner of the dusty room. He looked to be reading an old newspaper he had found on one of the shelves, “Really,” he continued, “I would just go to the men’s room.”

“You know,” muttered Clark, to himself more than Jason, “I really ought to start paying better attention at work.” Still, he shut the door behind him, pulling on the old string hanging from the ceiling to illuminate the room in harsh yellow light. At least it made Jason look less like a misplaced cat and more the sixteen year old boy he was. “What on Earth are you doing here?” asked Clark after a moment.

Jason looked disinterested and aloof. He hadn’t even looked at Clark yet, thumbing through the funny’s section of the paper he had picked up. His heartbeat told a different story, thrumming with nervousness, “The sinking cruise ship you’re headed to? It’s a trap—Lex Luthor’s doing, of course. Ship’s full of soldiers for hire loaded up with kryptonite bullets.”

Clark stopped. Jason wasn’t lying. His heartbeat was fast, for sure, but it was steady.

“Thank you,” Clark said slowly, still looking up at the boy, “Want to just shoot me a text next time, bud?” he asked, resecruing his tie.

Jason scowled, “Don’t call be bud,” he said, hopping down from the pile of boxes. 

“Wait!” called Clark, still disoriented by the whole situation, “What’s going on? Is uh—B… with you?” That was clearly not the right thing to say, Clark noted, as Jason’s scowl deepened, “Okay!” Clark amended, “Clearly he’s not. Well, how long will you be in town? Do you need—do you have a place to stay?”

“As if I’d stay in a dump like  _ Metropolis, _ ” the kid said, opening the door and walking out to the empty hallway, disgust dripping from his expression, “No, I’m leaving today. And even if I  _ were  _ staying, I wouldn't need your  _ charity, _ ” he spat out the word like it was dirty.

“I never said you would have,” Clark said, putting his hands up in surrender, “What can I say, I was taught to offer a helping hand when I can.”

“No wonder they call you a boy-scout,” sneered Jason, before turning right at the end of the hallway, out of sight.

“Thanks again!” Clark called after him, confused, “I guess I’ll just… go back to my desk?”

Clark flew to the Wayne Manor that night. Jason’s impromptu visit had been rubbing him the wrong way since it occurred, and he craved answers. Well, he didn’t know exactly what he craved, but he thought he might find it at the Manor, so he flew there directly after dropping off groceries at his apartment in Metropolis.

Bruce looked as disinterested as he always did when Clark arrived, hovering a centimeter of the ground. There was a drink in the billionaire’s hand, scotch. Clark’s nose scrunched as the smell bit the back of his throat. He reeled in his senses—he hadn’t realized they were extended so far. 

“What is it this time?” asked Bruce, disinterested. They were in the entry-way of the Manor, away from the prying eyes of the sky above.

“Jason stopped by Metropolis today.” Bruce’s disinterested gaze didn’t falter as he listened to Clark, but Clark heard the man’s heartbeat skip. He reeled his senses back further until he could only hear his own heartbeat, thrumming slowly in his chest.

“And?” Bruce prompted, carefully.

“I think he saved my life?” said Clark, still a tad confused over the whole situation. According to local Caribbean news, the sinking ship was little more than a communication failure by the captain, and was resolved quickly when no one came to their ‘rescue’. “Anyways, he told me he’s leaving Metropolis. I just… wanted to let you know… I think.” Clark didn’t really know what he wanted out of this conversation, but coming to Bruce felt like the right thing to do, and hadn’t Jason  _ just _ called him a boy-scout a few hours ago?

Bruce’s face shifted at the information. He swore softly under his breath, setting his drink down next to an ostentatious bouquet of white lilies before turning away and walking out of sight.

“Am I supposed to follow?” Clark asked himself as the man left. “Apparently not,” Clark deduced, hearing the click of a lock as Bruce closed a door behind him, out of sight, “I guess I’ll just… go,” he said to himself, nodding.

The chilled glass of scotch was left alone in the entryway as Clark left Wayne Manor, flying back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I KNOW I write Jason like a miniature asshole but that's because he IS one. I'd still die for him though. As always I LIVE for your comments. I read them all and they keep this story alive, so please let me know your thoughts.


	6. Lasagna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know this chapter is short but my life recently turned into a 2000s teen coming of age movie (and not a particularly good one) so I haven't had the time to write much. While I deal with the Road of Trials in my own hero's journey story, here's the most recent chapter I've written.

Dick was making a lasagna. It wasn’t his first choice, but Clark had brought lasagna noodles during his grocery drop off, and the young man didn’t know what else you were supposed to do with them other than make lasagna, so he looked up a recipe and got to work. He didn’t have ‘italian seasoning’ or ‘bell peppers,’ but he did have salt and pepper and a couple carrots, so he was fine, right? He tried to bite back the tears that formed while he chopped an onion, and wondered for a second why he felt _weak_ at the sensation. It was a fucking onion. It _hurt._ _Not everything is as deep as you think it is,_ he told himself as he stood aimlessly in the living room, waiting for the pain to recede so he could go back into the kitchen and do it all over again. Dick tried not to think too hard about the metaphors being dropped at his feet. He went back to his kitchen and sauteed the onion and chopped carrot, grinning at the way they sizzled on his stovetop. He had reached the nice part of cooking, the part where you just stir things occasionally (simmering?), when he heard a knock at his door. Dick tried to school his features when it was Jason he saw on the other side.

“Hey bud, want some lasagna?”

Jason’s nose scrunched. “Don’t call me bud.”

“Oh, thank god,” Dick said, turning back to the kitchen, “You looked like you were going to say the lasagna smelled bad.”

“That too,” Jason grinned under his voice, and Dick smiled wide at what he assumed (hoped) was a joke.

“Come in!” Dick said over his shoulder, “Lock the door behind you. I live in a shitty area.”

“It's not that bad,” Jason muttered, closing the squeaking door behind him and standing aimlessly in the apartment’s small living room. “And I’m sure we could take care of any  _ burglars _ .”

“Sure we could,” Dick conceded, “But I’m making  _ lasagna _ .” It was always easier for Dick to smile when he had someone to smile  _ for. _

“When did you learn how to cook?” Jason asked, hands stuffed in his hoodie. It sounded like an insult, but Dick had known the boy long enough to know Jason was just curious.

“Uh… thirty minutes ago?”

Jason huffed. “Got a beer?” He asked next. It was Dick who laughed then.

“I’m  _ eighteen _ , Jason.”

“I didn’t ask your  _ age _ .”

Dick scoffed, “How old are you now? Sixteen?” he paused for a moment, considering. He narrowed his eyes at Jason. “One.  _ During dinner _ . And you don’t tell Dad,” he finished with wide eyes.

“Deal—wait, you call Bruce  _ dad _ ?”

“Not  _ around  _ him…” Dick looked oddly vulnerable, eyes shifting to the dirty carpet. They were still in the living room, “But sometimes… I guess.” he finished with a shrug. They were snapped out of the moment by Dick’s phone alarm blaring from the kitchen. “ _ Shit, _ the sauce is ready.”

It was another hour until the lasagna was ready, Dick noted, sliding it into the oven and setting a second timer on his phone. Jason was ansty in the kitchen, leg bouncing and eyes shifting rapidly from the oven to Dick to out the window. 

“You’re crawling out of your skin there, Jace,” Dick tried, washing parmesan cheese and meat sauce off his hands. “What’s going on?”

Jason bristled, receding further within himself, drowning himself in the red hoodie he wore.

Dick tried again, “I’ll let you have a beer if you tell me,” he shrugged, pulling a Corona from his fridge and opening it, handing it over to Jason. Jason’s nose wrinkled when he took a swig. “This is terrible,” he grimaced.

“That’s because your only experience with alcohol is breaking into Bruce’s stash. I don’t think that man has ever bought a bottle that cost less than $100.”

“Well clearly he knows what he’s doing because  _ his _ shit doesn’t taste like mother Theresa’s yeast infection.” Jason took another tentative swig.

“It's a  _ Corona, _ Jace. I had to convince my neighbor to buy it for me.”

“Get a better neighbor.”

“Yeah, yeah… Your turn. I got you all liquored up, spill. What’s going on?” Dick gestured to the couch in his living room, plopping down himself with his own beer.

“Bruce is being a dick.”

Dick snorted, “Anything else I should know? Does rain still fall down and not up?”

“Asshole,” Jason muttered, cradling his beer.

“You’re gonna need to give me more than that, bud.” Jason didn’t even call Dick out for calling Jason ‘bud’.

They talked until Dick’s phone blared once again, signaling to them both that lasagna was ready. And then, two beers in at that point, they talked some more, pretending like the pasta dish wasn’t burning their mouths and throats as they shovelled it down their gullets. They talked until the sun went down and long after that. Dick called Bruce an ‘emotionally stunted piece of shit who can’t say ‘I love you’ for the life of him’ more times than he could count that night, and Jason tried (and failed) several times to sneak a third beer out of Dick’s fridge. They talked about being Robin, and the pressure that was on them to be a light in the ever present darkness of Gotham City. They talked about those awkward years where the boys lived with each other; When Bruce Wayne picked up Gotham City orphan Jason Todd, Jason was only eleven, and Dick was only fourteen and had only been Robin for a couple months. Jason lived in Wayne Manor and was trained to fight and learned chemistry and global economic theory all while Batman and Robin saved Gotham in the batcave below him— _ without  _ him—for four  _ years _ .

Over a plate of lasagna Jason almost admits to Dick the flurry of emotions that roiled in his gut when Dick had given up the mantle of Robin. The choice that stood before him and the simultaneous loss of the closest thing Jason had ever had to a brother. The mixture of annoyance and relief the first time Dick had returned to Gotham for dinner after moving to Bludhaven—the mixture of love and absolute despisement between two people that could only be truly experienced by siblings _. _ Jason didn’t say any of this outright, but hinted it throughout the night, and Dick responded in turn, sharing his own memories from their early childhood.

When the conversation died down, dishes were washed, and exhaustion began to settle in Dick’s bones, he stood, groaning at how heavy his limbs felt. Jason stood too. His face hardened, but Dick didn’t notice, walking towards his room. He stopped short of his bedroom door, opening a small linen closet and pulling out a pair of sheets.

“I’m too poor for a guest room. But the couch is actually a futon, so you’ll be fine.” When Dick looked up, Jason was taut like a wire. Dick immediately felt more awake, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t stay,” Jason said, shoving his hands in his hoodie.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because…” Dick wondered if Jason didn’t have an answer or if he just didn’t want to tell Dick his answer. Dick realized he frankly didn’t give a shit. Jason was staying either way.

“You want to eat all my food and you won’t even stay the night?” It was rude, but it would work. Dick just had to make it sound like it was more of a burden if Jason  _ left _ . He still distinctly remembered falling for the same tricks only a year ago.

“I’m—I’d just get in your way,” Jason said with a nod that looked final and undisputable. Dick disputed it anyway.

“You’re staying.” Dick threw the sheets at Jason, who barely caught them without them smacking him in the face. “Make the futorn, asshole. I’m not Alfred.”

Dick was scarily final in his decision. Even as his eyes were lidded half closed with sleep, he stood with his arms crossed in the corner of his living room until Jason was—yes,  _ in  _ bed _. I’m not going to bed until you do. And don’t you dare try to sneak out, I’ll call fucking Superman to track down your ass. _

Dick only fell asleep in his own small room when he heard the soft breaths of his brother sleeping in his living room futon. 

* * *

_ He looks sheepish _ Bruce thought suddenly, looking up at Superman before him.

“Get  _ down _ ,” Batman hissed, and in a moment Superman was crouching beside him. Shadows didn’t stick to the man like they did with Bruce, but he wasn’t a blaring blue and red beacon anymore, so Batman wasn’t going to complain too much. “What are you  _ doing  _ here,” Batman growled. The voice modulator made everything the man said more intimidating, but Superman didn’t seem to be affected, grinning like a school boy. 

“I found Robin!  _ He’s with Nightwing, _ ” Clark added conspiratorially. When Bruce didn’t respond, Clark continued, “Now, I wanted to stay out of it. They are  _ your _ family and I was raised right. I never want to listen in on someone when I don’t have to… but Jason was  _ crying _ and I must have caught on to it—”

“He was crying? Why?” Bruce growled, sounding more and more like Gotham’s cloaked vigilante by the second. 

It took all of Clark’s self control  _ not _ to say ‘bless your heart’ and the poor idiot before him. It was a phrase his aunt from Texas had taught him before Clark became too  _ weird  _ for that side of the family and Martha Kent quickly and ruthlessly cut them out of their quiet and charmingly abnormal lives in Kansas.

“Because he was sad?” Clark said instead—slowly, like he was talking to an oblivious child, “The  _ point _ is… now that you know where he is, you can go to him and apologize for whatever you did wrong,” Clark said it with his charming and authoritative ‘Superman’ smile which left no room for argument by the general populace. Bruce Wayne was not the general populace.  _ Bruce Wayne _ only huffed and turned his attention back to the alleyway below him.

“I already knew where he was.”

Clark let the comment hang in the polluted air as he processed the words. “You—I cannot believe you.” Clark would have facepalmed if it didn’t make him look like a cartoon character.

“Do you think I just shrug and move on when my children run away from home without making sure they’re  _ safe _ ?” Bruce asked, incredulous. 

“You are the most oblivious man I have ever met—” 

“He is safe with Nightwing. If he wants to live in Bludhaven—”

“‘ _ Nightwing’ _ is 18, he can’t raise a  _ teenager— _ ”

“Robin is very self-sufficient. I will send funds to them both bi-weekly—”

“Whatever you said hurt him, B. All you need to do is—” 

“Stay out of this. Robin is my responsibility, not yours—”

“Then  _ act  _ like it.”

Batman and Superman—Bruce and Clark—could have bickered like that for hours if they had the opportunity. But there was always work to be done, and one of Penguin's men and Batman’s spies had just walked out of the back exit of the Iceberg Lounge to ‘smoke a cigarette’. Batman made sure all of the security cameras were still down before he descended, shoving the man against the dirty wall. Superman didn’t wait up. There was a major accident on the freeway outside of Metropolis, and Clark could hear it getting worse.

“And they call me the alien,” Clark muttered as he flew in the direction of the pained screams and tearing metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I had just made lasagna when I wrote this?  
> https://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/lasagna/  
> Here's the recipe I use, lol


	7. Pouring Molasses on a Cold Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly realizing that whenever I want two characters in this story to have a conversation, they're either on a rooftop or eating something.
> 
> I stole the title of today's chapter from my political science professor, who would always say ''the American policy process is like pouring molasses on a cold day". I always liked that imagery, and so I stole the wonderfully insightful and well crafted quote and altered it for the needs of my superbat fanfiction. Sorry, Professor.

It was hard to stay out of it. Clark liked helping people and was  _ good  _ at it. But Dick Grayson and Jason Todd weren’t his family. Bruce was their family, and thus, there wasn’t much Clark  _ could  _ do. Nowadays Clark’s family was Martha Kent in Smallville, Kansas. Both of his fathers were dead, Johnathan Kent having died four years ago of an unexpected heart attack. The night of his father’s death was the first time Clark realized he couldn't fix everything. He had moved to Metropolis almost exactly a year later, 29 years old and ready to make as much of a difference as he could with the abilities he had. He met and fell for Lois Lane within a week. Lois was a good friend and an okay ex-girlfriend—probably the best of either Clark had ever had, but Lois wasn’t family. Speaking of Lois, she was sitting across from Clark as his mind wandered into thoughts of Bruce and his fathers and  _ Superman _ .

As he looked at his former…  _ something…  _ Clark realized he has lost himself in time. The world sat silent and still around him, suspended between two beats of Lois’ heart. The dust in the air moved sluggishly, as if pushing through cold molasses. The barista behind the counter of the small coffee shop was pouring steamed milk in a paper cup. He took a slow breath, allowing time to rush past him once more. The dust flew chaotically with the opening of the cafe’s door. The barista snapped a plastic lid onto the drink she was making. Lois’ heartbeat thumped quickly as she retold the tale of her daring escape from the Japanese Yakuza five years ago.

“Ah yes,” Lois sighed dramatically, “Back in the day before  _ you  _ were always there to steal my spotlight whenever something goes slightly off-course.” Clark ignored the comment, biting into his too-dry croissant instead.

He tried not to listen to Jason or Dick, or  _ Bruce _ . They were fine, he told himself, nodding along as Lois wrapped up her story. Even if they weren’t fine, it wasn’t Clark’s job to fix it, as easy as he thought it would be easy with just a little  _ talking _ . He let the bitter scent of Lois’ black coffee to pull him back to the coffee shop and away from his fantasies of teaching the Wayne family basic emotional intelligence. Clark didn’t know how she drank the stuff, preferring cream and sugar himself. According to Lois, she had started drinking it black in high school after her father started giving her dirty looks for drinking coffee at all at such a ‘young age’. The habit had stuck long after the need to rebel against her father had. Clark always thought about a whale’s hind legs when he recalled that story—vestigial structures, useless marks from the past etched into the DNA of the present. He wondered if he had any such structures. Did Superman have wisdom teeth, an appendix, a tail bone? How close to a human was his body really? He never went to the doctor as a kid, the Kents were always worried a doctor would see something they shouldn't. If Clark was curious enough, he was sure Bruce would be happy to examine Clark; Bruce would dissect the man given the opportunity.  _ And _ he was back to thinking about Bruce. Lois. Lois was in front of him and she was still talking about Japan. 

“I had to take a  _ fishing boat _ to South Korea and I  _ probably _ shouldn’t go back to the Fukuoka prefecture for another couple of years, but I got the flashdrive,” she shrugged with the end of the story, gulping down the rest of her bitter coffee and standing from her seat across from Clark. “We should head back to the office. I’m sure White’s done yelling at Lombard by now.”

“You’re just happy it wasn’t  _ you  _ he was yelling at for once,” Clark grinned, finishing his own coffee.

“What can I say?” Lois grinned back—she was always good at looking like nothing bothered her, “It's a nice change of pace.”

As they walked the half-block from Metropolis Select to The Daily Planet, Clark noted the gruff yelling match between Steve Lombard and Perry White on the top floor of the Daily Planet’s building was still going strong, so Lois and Clark agreed to check out that new jewelry place a block away. Lois had needed a new watch ever since it was slipped off her wrist by a pickpocket in Turkey last month. When they reached the small jewelry place, a clean storefront accented with silvers and whites, the hopeless romantic in Clark tried not to look at the engagement rings protected neatly under shatter-proof glass—rings he could’ve bought Lois if things had turned out a little different.

“What’s on your mind, Clark?” Lois asked, trying on a watch under the watchful gaze of a young employee.

“Nothing!” Clark lied quickly. What could he tell her, realistically?  _ Yeah Lois, I’m thinking about the fact that my Mom still calls you ‘the daughter she never had’.  _ Or  _ Sorry Lois, I’m trying to talk myself out of getting involved in the family disputes of billionaire and masked vigilante Bruce Wayne, otherwise known as Batman _ . Lois just leveled him with a look when he said nothing. Never say Lois Lane wasn’t observant. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he begged. Lois only shrugged. 

“Alright, big man. You coming to dinner tonight? Lucy’s in town.”

“Sure.” Clark was glad for the change in subject, “You buy groceries, I cook?” Lois Lane was talented at a great many things, but they both knew she was raised on TV dinners and freezer burnt meatloaf. Clark’s country upbringing made him a better chef by a mile.

Lois grinned, “That’s secretly why I invited you.”

“You are very bad at keeping secrets.”

All but one secret, of course.

Lois barked a laugh and returned the watch to the nervous employee, “Are we good to go? I don’t see anything here.”

Clark checked quickly, “Seems Mr. White locked himself in his office alone. We’re fine.”

“Great!” The two left the jewelry shop quickly.

* * *

The next evening, while Clark was making stir fry in Metropolis, Jason Todd heard a knock on his brother’s door in Bludhaven. He squinted through the peephole, scowling at what he saw. Bruce Wayne holding a pizza.

He opened the door anyway.

“What,” Jason growled. Bruce only raised his eyebrows in question. Jason didn’t move, “I said ‘ _ what’,  _ Bruce. What do you want?”

“Can we… talk? I know Dick isn’t here.” The words seemed strange and clipped in Jason's ears.

“Is that who you were looking for?  _ Dick? _ He won’t be back for a while. I’m sure there’s a rooftop you can brood on in the meantime.”

“I just said—no, Jace. I’m here for you. Are you going to let me in or not?” Bruce growled.

Jason only smirked, opening the door further and waving his guardian in. Bruce swept the room with his gaze as he entered. Searching for exits, places that people could hide, improvised weapons. Jason knew that look because he did the same thing when he entered rooms now, too.

Bruce found plates easily, setting them on Dick’s small, foldable dining room table and dishing out two slices on each plate.

“I—” Bruce tried, before stopping himself, “There was a job last night. It… It would have been nice to have you there.” Bruce Wayne was never one for small talk when he could avoid it.

“Why?” Jason prodded, “You said it yourself, you don’t  _ need _ me. I just get in the way.”

“I never said you  _ just get in the way _ , Jason.”

“Yeah but that’s what you meant—”

“No it wasn’t,” Bruce interrupted, “There are some jobs which are unethical for me to take a  _ child _ on, Jason—”

“I told you already,  _ Bruce, _ I’ve  _ seen _ dead kids before. I don’t  _ care _ .” 

Bruce tried switching gears, “I understand you want to help people, but—”

“Being Robin isn’t about  _ helping people, _ ” Jason laughed, bitter and short, “That’s what  _ Superman  _ is for. It's about  _ punishing  _ people who hurt others.”

Jason watched the words hit Bruce like a kick in the gut, and couldn’t fathom why the reaction was so  _ visceral _ . The pizza still sat uneaten before them. Jason continued to watch as Bruce thought. He had never seen a cow in real life, but he liked to think that Bruce looked as dumb as a cow as he sat before Jason and tried to puzzle together the right words to say.

Finally, Bruce settled on subtle begging, “I… need you, Jason. Batman needs a Robin. You didn’t need to save Superman’s life or do Dick’s dishes to feel needed, because I’ve always needed you. Come home, please.”

Jason examined Bruce for a long moment. He took a bite of his pizza.

“Fine,” he eventually shrugged, “If you really need me so much, it would be  _ cruel  _ to deprive you of something so vital.” With a smile, mischievous and large, Jason Todd followed Bruce Wayne back to Gotham City.

* * *

“Nice speech,” Superman grinned, landing softly beside Batman on a Gotham City rooftop.

“Huh?” Batman responded, looking forward. Robin was two rooftops over, looking at the street attentively with a pair of binoculars.

“Two days ago, to Robin. The whole ‘I need you’ bit was a nice touch, glad you were finally able to admit it.” Even in the polluted darkness of Gotham City’s night, Superman radiated warmth and confidence in his smile alone.

Batman only grunted, “I told the kid what he wanted to hear. He needed to come home and he still has more to learn… you were right.”

Batman looked over a few moments later when Superman still hadn’t responded, and was met with an incredulous look.

“Bullshit,” Superman breathed, and Batman let a chuckle burst through his chest.

“Superman swears now?”

“ _ Bull-shit _ ,” Superman repeated, “You weren’t lying. Your heart rate didn’t change at  _ all. _ ”

“You were listening to my heart rate?” Batman asked, amused, “You know I was trained by Tibetan monks to keep my heart rate steady under extreme conditions, right? I’d hardly call lying to a sixteen year old boy  _ extreme _ .”

“No,  _ no way, _ ” Clark continued, “I  _ refuse  _ to believe that you are so idiotic that you actually think you  _ don’t _ need Robin. In the past week he’s been gone, you gained 4 hairline fractures.”

“I fell off a  _ building _ . Twenty foot falls actually hurt  _ some  _ of us.”

“Come on,” Superman grinned. He had began hover a centimeter off the ground, but Bruce couldn't help but admit how  _ human  _ he looked in the moment, “Look,” Clark said, exasperated, “I think deep down you know you need him, so I’m not going to impede on your ‘territory’ any longer than needed trying to convince you of it. I  _ did _ actually have a reason for coming all the way over here.”

“And what would that reason be?” Bruce asked, silently happy to change the subject.

“I have a bad feeling about Luthor.”

“You  _ always _ have a bad feeling about Luthor, he’s a crazy paranoid billionaire.”

Clark grinned again, “He’s not the only crazy paranoid billionaire I know. Anyways, ever since he donated his way out of the most recent charges out of Metropolis’ DA’s Office, he’s been too quiet. I was wondering if you had heard anything.”

Bruce sighed, the sound altered by the voice modulator he hadn’t turned off, “I haven’t. But I’ll send you what I have on him.”

“Thank you,” Superman smiled, small and genuine, “See you around?”

Batman only chucked, watching Superman become a blur and he flew into the cloudy Gotham City sky and, presumably, back to Metropolis. He turned his comm back on, “See anything, Robin?”

“No movement so far.”

“Good. Remember, tonight is about  _ helping people _ .”

“ _ Whatever. _ ”

“I’m serious, Robin. No shenanigans.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter... I'll get back into the groove eventually... 
> 
> If DCEU doesn't have to listen to their own cannon, neither do I.  
> Stupid Stuff I've Changed  
> 1\. Johnathan Kent did NOT die in a tornado telling Clark NOT to help people. Both the Kents love and support their son as Superman - that is FINAL.  
> 2\. I let Superman say fuck... as a treat.  
> 3\. Some other stuff too, I'm sure. Canon doesn't exist here. I just take my favorite pieces of various comics and movies as well as my own headcannons and we'll figure it out together.
> 
> Anyways, here's today's chapter condensed into two sentences: 
> 
> Bruce: I am going to use my honed manipulation tactics to get this lost and broken child back under my care so I can make him a better person but I'm actually LYING to him because even though I would do anything for this child I refuse to admit I need him.
> 
> Clark: ...so... when you're done lying to yourself... I just wanted you to know I'm proud of you.


	8. Three Disasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhh.... so its been a hot minute since I've posted anything on here. Make you you check to see if you've read the last chapter, I posted it during a period of a couple days when AO3 was down, so if you've been reading as its been coming out, you may not have been sent an email notification.

Three disasters.

A tornado in the Midwest. A small cul-de-sac was destroyed. There was nothing Superman could do but get people out. Two dogs and an elderly woman died. Over a million dollars in damages, and years worth of priceless memories destroyed. It was in Nebraska, but Clark couldn’t feel his chest tighten at the idea that one of these days one of these tornadoes could destroy his mother’s life. She would call him foolish if he ever told her—they grew up in Kansas after all, of course a tornado could come. It would happen or it wouldn’t, Martha Kent would say.

A building collapsed in China. Clark heard about it on the news first, one of the large and bright flatscreen TVs at the Daily Planet. He was too late. Clark hated the smell of death: the musky and heavy scent which stuck to the back of his throat. A couple people were stuck under the rubble. Superman couldn’t get to them without more concrete crushing them to death.

Clark Kent didn’t know much Mandarin. He had picked a bit up in his years of travel, but being able to ask where the bathroom is or order a simple meal isn’t the same as offering complex and time sensitive directions to people buried under tons of concrete. And a perfect memory doesn’t help Clark when he doesn't know what he’s memorizing. And it definitely doesn’t help his pronunciation.

A lot of people were already dead. Even more die under the rubble. Superman can hear their heartbeat. Clark can hear their heartbeat stop. Some survive with crushed legs or traumatic brain injuries. Most people die. He pulls out as many as he can.

A shooting in Metropolis. She was released from Arkahm two years prior. Whatever the doctors did to her in there left her bitter and cruel. She bought a gun off of her drug dealer. She had a kid. Clark heard the screaming across town from her apartment. He got there just before the police did. She was holding the gun to her toddler’s head. A man—the father, maybe—was screaming, begging her to stop. Clark grabbed the gun and bent it in half before they even realized he was there. He tried to be delicate as he pulled the crying child from her arms, but he was, what did they say in the news nowadays? ‘Going faster than a speeding bullet?’ The baby just screamed and cried louder at the abrupt change. The police arrived moments later (a neighbor had called it in). They pointed their own guns, and dragged the woman away in handcuffs as she kicked and screamed and sobbed. Clark tried to talk to the man, but his mouth was agape and his eyes shifted nervously. Hoarsely, his voice was still raw from screaming, after all, he explained that he wasn’t technically the child’s father, though he loved her like he was. Clark thought that was enough. The courts wouldn’t agree. The courts were likely to send the toddler to her biological father, a doctor in Arkham Asylum. Clark told the man he’d testify, if the courts would let him. He didn’t think they would. Social services took the child an hour later, pulling her from her father’s arm as she slept. She didn’t understand what was happening as they pulled her from her daddy’s arms. She cried and cried all the way to the police station, and Clark heard it bite against his eardrums until she fell back asleep, exhausted, hours later.

It was a long week.

* * *

He gets a text from Lois.

“Remember to eat.”

He hates it. What right does she have to tell him what to do anymore?

He makes eggs.

He’s being unreasonable. He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t feel like enough. He wishes he could breathe deeper, wishes he could feel the air farther down in his chest.

* * *

At some point the baby robins on the top of his apartment complex flew away in search of a new home. The parents leave too, searching for somewhere new to lay their second or third brood for the season. Clark misses their quiet chirps, and feels alone again.

* * *

Bruce visited on Sunday night. He was sitting on Clark’s couch when Clark entered the apartment, keys jingling in his hand.

Clark sighed like he hadn’t clocked Bruce the moment he was within a city block of his apartment, and tossed his keys in the (ugly but loved) handmade bowl he made as a kid and flew over from Smallville last year.

“Hey Bruce, want a ginger ale?”  _ Is this an inside joke yet? _ Clark wondered, grabbing the cool can from his fridge and holding it out for Bruce. The man remained stoic in his seat. Clark just set the can in front of him.

“Why are you here?” Clark tried instead.

Bruce raised a single eyebrow. Clark had never managed to learn to do that. He blamed kryptonian biology, but he had no idea, really.

“Afraid I’m going to go all ‘Emperor Kal’? I have had bad weeks before, Bruce.” Bruce leaned back in his seat a fraction, grabbing and opening the ginger ale in a fluid movement. Clark heard it sizzle and pop as it slid down his throat.

Maybe Bruce was here to kill him. It had been a while since any sort of moralistic disagreement had reached that level, but Bruce was cautious. If he thought Clark was a danger to anyone, he would act swiftly. Would it be obvious if Clark swept the room for kryptonite or any other weapons which could be used against him. Surely he would have felt kryptonite.  _ Surely. _ So, maybe there’s no kryptonite. What about other heroes? He had seen Bruce, but had he missed someone? What if Bruce had spies? Elroy in the staircase, smoking a cigarette as Clark was walking up—was he a spy? He did always look at Clark oddly when they saw each other. But Elroy was retired, that’s a ridiculous notion. But maybe Sally downstairs—

“Came to return the favor, actually.” Bruce pulled Clark from his thoughts with slow words and narrowed eyes.

Clark noticed a paper cup on the floor beside Bruce. Metropolis Select. He chided himself, for a moment, for not seeing it upon entry. Then he reasoned that most people didn’t leave cups of coffee on Clark’s linoleum, and he forgave himself. Still, what else had he missed?

Bruce picked the coffee up from the floor and slid it across the table.

“There’s no kryptonite ground up with the beans?” Clark eyed the cup suspiciously. It was a joke, he told himself.

“Who do you take me for?” Bruce asked, a glint of dry humor in his eyes.

“A paranoid billionaire with the means and motive to kill the most powerful person in the world?”

Bruce scoffed, “Drink the damn coffee, Clark.”

Clark’s eyes were narrowed, but he took a slow sip, and then another.

“Thanks.”

He wanted Bruce to leave. Clearly, Clark was struggling. Paranoid, depressed, isolating, he knew the signs by now. And if Bruce was here with coffee, he saw the signs too. But there was nothing Clark could  _ do. _ Nothing Bruce could do. He just had to wait it out. It's not like antidepressants would work on him and his kryptonian brain chemistry. If that  _ was  _ even what he needed. What medication did they usually give heros which see the worst corners of the world on a daily basis and are powerless to stop most of it? Clark doubted it was Zoloft.

Bruce just sat there. For a full fifteen minutes. They didn’t talk. Clark felt like a labrat being watched as he ran through a maze. Clark must have found the cheese, because after fifteen minutes and 13 seconds, Bruce stood up and began to put his coat on.

“I’m sorry—” Clark broke the 15 minute silence, “What just happened?” Clark was a smart man. One of the smartest in the country, most likely, and maybe even one of the smartest in the world. His brain worked faster than the human brain was capable of working, and Clark had to consciously slow it down most times to have conversations with humans. Even without his kryptonian biology, he was always naturally gifted at observation and drawing conclusions—two traits which worked rather well with his career as a journalist. But when it came to Bruce Wayne, there were some things which, as much as Clark tried, he couldn’t  _ understand. _

Questions about Bruce were left unanswered more than they were answered. Questions like “Why doesn’t he just talk to people?” and “How exactly does his moral compass justify the accidental deaths of criminals who were likely just impoverished with very few options outside of crime, while unable to justify the death of malicious criminals like the Joker?” Right now, Clark’s only question was “What is going on? What am I missing?”.

Bruce didn’t answer the spoken or unspoken questions.

“I see.” Clark seethed, feeling the anger grow hot in his gut. “You came to make sure I was okay— _ no, _ you came to make sure I was just okay enough not to become a monster. Now what? After staring at me while I confusedly drink coffee, you have me all figured out?”

Bruce still didn’t speak. That was okay with Clark, who was happy to continue.

“You still underestimate me, Bruce. Everyone does, it’s okay. You think that because I’m big and strong that there’s nothing up here.” He tapped his skull with enough force to crack cement. “That I’m one bad day from listening to my  _ dark side _ and blowing up the moon or leveling New York—both of which I could do, by the way. But I  _ don’t. _ And I  _ won’t _ . And if I do, you have full permission to throw me in a hole and throw away the hole. But until then, you do not get to  _ examine _ me, Bruce.”

“Is that what you thought I was doing?” Bruce asked, without a hint of malice. In fact, Clark seethed at the thought, Bruce’s face was completely unreadable.

“Don’t play  _ stupid, _ ” Clark hissed.

“I am sorry that is the impression I gave off.” Bruce looked like he wanted to say something, mouth open slightly in an expression which was so unlike the man that Clark nearly reeled at it. Clark was so conflicted that he said nothing more as Bruce finished shrugging on his coat and walked swiftly out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: miscommunication is a terrible plot device I hate it and I hate everyone that uses it.  
> Also me: They're both just a tiny bit stupid... :)
> 
> Anyway as unhealthy as it is I am mostly motivated by exterior praise so if you want to see more of this you should give me your thoughts/opinions in the comments. They're like crack cocaine and I'm a guy screaming at the clouds on a street corner.


End file.
